


and up she rises

by HouserOfStories



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Needs a Hug, Eventual Found Family, Food, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Minor Violence, Nate and Polly were not planned but now I would fight an entire pirate ship for them, Near Death Experiences, Pirates, Roman is thinking of the worst, Violent Thoughts, Will add more tags as chapters are uploaded, some historical liberties are taken but not the sticky buns, the existence of sticky buns is entirely historically accurate, with DLAMPR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouserOfStories/pseuds/HouserOfStories
Summary: When Captain Patton Sanders, the legendary pirate, is not-so-legendarily captured, there’s only one thing for Roman to do. And itcertainlyisn’t letting Logan go and rescue him by himself. Now if they could stop picking up people in near death situations, that would be swell.(Sometimes a family is three pirates, a bored artist, a rebellious thief, and a rather morbid storyteller. They wouldn’t have it any other way.)
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman “Princey” Sanders & Procrastination | Nate Sanders, Creativity | Roman “Princey” Sanders and Pranks Sanders
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: TSS Fanworks Collective





	and up she rises

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for [@katlikethesword](https://katlikethesword.tumblr.com/) as part of the Sanders Sides Holiday Gift Exchange 2020! Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Thanks to [@anotheregofanficblog](https://anotheregofanficbloog.tumblr.com/) for betaing this first chapter — this never would have been what it is without you.

Folk stories are funny things when you think about it. There’s the type you tell to children as you turn the light out, and the type you whisper around a campfire. There’s warnings, and lessons, and incredibly random ones that you remember when you least expect it. The world turns, and changes, but the one thing that never disappears is the art of storytelling. This story is (probably) much like your own, except with a lot more emphasis on puffy sleeved (or just 18th century men’s) shirts and many more plot convenient forests, because if the world is your sandpit why not act like it? But it’s a story worth telling regardless.

Once upon a time, in a land quite like this one, Roman might be inclined to agree, if he wasn’t preoccupied with the gold and navy blue flags heading towards his ship. He lowers his spyglass, says a quick prayer to whoever’s listening, then looks again. The King’s Navy is approaching quickly. And they’re _definitely_ not here for afternoon tea. “Incoming!” He yells, throwing his boots onto the deck before following them off the crow’s nest. 

“Is it absolutely necessary you use your shoes as projectiles?” The Quartermaster huffs.

“Absolutely necessary, sir.” Roman catches the mast at the last minute with practised ease and starts pulling his boots back on the moment he hits the deck. Logan makes a displeased hum, but doesn’t press. This is a fight he knows he’s never going to win.

He straightens Roman’s hat for him. Roman sets it wonky again. “Was there anything you needed, Roman?”

_Oh_. How could he forget? “King’s men, heading south. Just one ship for now.” He stands at his full height - which isn’t much, but it feels official. “We’re on a straight course to collide with them.”

Logan stiffens, and his eyes widen for a moment before settling into neutrality. It sends a shiver down Roman’s back every time; this signals that Logan means business, that every calculated and logical risk is a risk he’s going to take. Sailors see it and feel scared. Roman’s only ever felt safe, but this time… This time something feels wrong. Logan’s hands are twitching behind his back, although he’s trying to hide it. “Impossible,” he mutters, “I said to change course so we’d _avoid_ the new patrol route, _why—”_ He seems to remember Roman’s still there, waiting for any sort of instruction. “Are you sure?”

“Positive, sir. They’ve just passed that rock formation, there.”

Logan sucks in a shuddering breath, handing Roman’s spyglass back to him. He scrubs at a tiny smudge of ink left behind. “Roman, inform the others; we need to prepare.” He nods once in confirmation, and behind him Logan fastens his pace. “Captain? _Captain!”_

_*_

Roman doesn’t know where _these_ particular sailors crawled out from, but your standard naval crew never gets as far as _boarding the ship._ He may be panicking just a little. Nate’s team had loaded up the cannons three times, and for the one hit they landed _The Bluebottle_ ’s taken two. Not bad enough to be in danger of sinking, but some repairs are going to have to take place quickly. And Roman just doesn’t _understand._ Sure, they’ve met the Royal Navy tit for tat before; targeted, been targeted, even been surprised once or twice. But they’ve _always_ bested whoever gets sent their way. So why does it almost seem like they’d been expected?

A dark blue flash moves behind him, and Roman meets it steel on steel. He’s been spending longer hours up in the crow’s nest since they came nearer to the coast, and it shows. Does his opponent know he’s rusty? Feinting to the left, he lunges a little too far forward, and he pays for it with a long cut on his side. He decides to pick the pace. Parry once, twice, jab then try and sweep out their legs. Aim for the throat, eyes, let your sword say one thing and your body another. _It’s not fighting dirty, it’s playing smart,_ he thinks.His sword gets knocked out of his hands. Blood and sweat trickle down his back. He knees the soldier in the groin then goes for their sword, sucking in a pained gasp as it comes down on his shoulder. Throat, eyes, don’t stop pushing. There’s the tiniest of openings, and he takes it. _Fighting smart._ A strangled gasp as Roman punches their throat. _And also fighting dirty._

Even when you’re inevitably going to lose, you have to count the small victories.

“That all you’ve got?” Roman taunts, and grins savagely.

“If you’re asking,” the sailor grunts, before kicking him in the gut. The impact sends him skittering across until he hits the mast with a thump. That’s going to leave a nasty bruise for the morning. _Great._ Nate kicks Roman’s sword across from where he’s battling two men and winning. What he wouldn’t give to have that skill, and what he wouldn't give to just win this _one_ fight.

 _Focus, Roman!_ Says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Logan. _Take in your surroundings._ Use _them._

 _My surroundings are a crew of sailors with actual skill!_ Roman replies.

_And a crew of incredibly skilled pirates, on a very sturdy ship. Now stop talking to an imaginary representation of me, and concentrate before you get literally skewered._

Sir Stab-A-Lot has picked up their sword. Sir Stab-A-Lot doesn’t have to waste time getting pep talks from their imaginary quartermaster. Probably. Roman settles into a familiar stance, then attacks. 

...But not immediately. There’s a saying he remembers: what goes up has to come down. He’s been spending a lot of time going up to the crow’s nest lately. And he knows a trick or two when it comes to coming down.

(Using your shoes as projectiles is _absolutely_ a valid strategy.)

As it turns out, getting hit over the head by a pair of boots isn’t covered in naval training. Such a shame; Knives And Dolls looked like they really wanted a Roman kebab. Such a shame the Roman in the kebab didn’t want to be skewered today. He brings the hilt of his sword down onto their head, and gets ready for who else wants to try and best him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Polly disappear underneath the water with a familiar black bag attached to her hip. Twenty minutes until the fireworks display, tops. Across the ship, Emile and Thomas are fighting back to back, driving sailors up and over the side. Logan is hacking at the ropes attached to the hull, and Roman can just about hear the splash as the final one drops into the sea. Three more immediately take its place. Nate is—

Strange, Roman can’t see Nate at all. Presumably he’s run under to restock, or load up the cannons again. Something twists in Roman’s gut, and it’s probably instinct. He squashes it down. _Nate’s fine. He’ll be back any moment._

And in that moment, the Roman Kebab Agenda comes back with a vengeance.

Someone comes up behind him, and someone’s panicked shout of “ _Roman! Behind you!”_ lets him keep his body stab wound free. He brings his sword up, blocking a strike to his chest. In hindsight, it might have been smarter to gain some distance first. Roman’s sword comes clattering out of his hand yet again as he’s flipped off the side of the ship into the icy waters below.

Fun fact: Roman’s _terrified_ of drowning. Less fun fact: he’s in danger of that fear becoming a reality.

His fingers curl around the edge of the hull and he holds on for dear life. Sir-Stab-A-Lot: The Not So Thrilling Sequel seems to have not gotten the fairytale villain memo however, as instead of uncurling them one by one, or just stepping on them, or anything else a reasonable person would do, _they bring their sword up to chop them all off._ Which is probably a tad bit violent for a Teen and Up rating.

_Three seconds until I learn to write left handed,_ he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. _Two seconds, one second-_

“Well that’s not very _knife_ of you!” His captain sends their sword flying, and Roman dares to open his eyes.

“Didn’t you already use that one last week?”

Patton winks, and sheaths his sword in order to pull Roman back up. “They don’t know that.” Even in the middle of a raging battle, Patton always knows what will make Roman laugh. And he does, relaxing his fingers as strong arms grab hold of him. Chills shoot up his legs as the tips of his toes touch the water, and despite himself he squeaks. “It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton reassures, leaning over to loop both hands underneath his shoulders. He’s not paying as much attention to the battle behind him as he should because he knows how scared Roman is now, right at this moment. And isn’t that the icing on the cake? Roman, who’s lived on this ship for over six years, freezes up when he touches a little seawater. When the possibility of hypothermia creeps into his clothes. When he isn’t even _close_ to going under. “We’ll get you out in just a second, just let me—“

_Bang._

Smoke curls upwards from the other captain’s gun. Patton’s grip on Roman’s arm slackens, then tightens again. Roman slowly starts to rise, and he’s almost got a good enough hold to pull himself over—

_Bang._

A sharp intake of breath. Screaming from his crew as they fight to get over to their side. The clink of chains. Roman starts to slide downwards, and his fingers scrape against the wooden hull as he struggles to hold on. Blood drips down past his fingers and into the sea. He doesn’t need a spyglass to know it isn’t his. Paint flakes off in his hands, and at least one splinter has embedded itself into his palm. Further down, further down. The tips of his fingers are turning white. Metal grates together in his ears, and the small part of him realises that Patton still had his sword sheathed. That Patton wasn’t paying his full attention to the battle because he was trying to save _Roman._ Over his own terror, he can faintly hear the man’s triumphant voice read off a preplanned speech. “Patton Sanders, you are under arrest for high treason against the court...” 

_This is all your fault,_ a tiny voice says in the back of his head. _You’re about to drown, and Patton’s been captured because of you, and you’re drowning, you’re drowning, this is all your fault, all your fault, YOU’RE DROWNING—_

And Roman is falling, and Roman is drowning, and Roman does not want to die.

*

“...Somewhere off the South East coast…we can meet you there in three or four days…” Logan’s voice drifts down to Roman in snatches. Out on the deck, the setting sun casts varying shades of orange and yellow light onto the wood. Roman holds his hands up to make shadow puppets: a rat, an elephant, and a snail. They look hazy and warped without a high enough wall but they’re recognisable if you squint a bit. 

“What’s that one supposed to be?” Nate asks from where he’s lightly smearing bruise cream onto his arm. Roman can smell the arnica on his own aching back, reminding him of pine trees and sage.

“Bison.” 

Nate nods, and Roman makes his shadow puppet move along towards the stern. His hands shift into something resembling a dog, then a snail again. It’s too quiet, he thinks to himself. The ship bops up and down gently with the ocean. It gives Roman too much time to think.

Patton’s gone, and the world should be angry. Waves should threaten to swallow them all, and the sky should wail and weep. The entire navy should be dead at their feet. Roman shouldn’t be sitting around doing _nothing,_ idly staring at the water as he licks his wounds. He should...he should...he doesn’t know what he should be doing. Perhaps Patton’s being tortured as Nate sits next to him with a heavy sigh. Maybe they’ve scheduled his execution, and he’s being chewed on by rats in a cold, damp cell while Roman lifts his arm to let Nate inspect his bandaged shoulder. Or while the blood stained bandages are carefully unwrapped and pulled away, there’s a rope around his neck and he’s nothing more than grotesque bunting—

“You missed the fireworks this time,” Polly says from behind him. Her footsteps give him something else to focus on, the _click tap, click tap, click tap_ overlapping with the sounds of the water lapping against the ship. “Blew a good chunk of their hull sky high and it sent them running like mice. I’ll do an encore if you ask nicely.” That makes her laugh softly, and she settles on Roman’s other side. She smells of smoke from the explosives and salt, and her corkscrew curls are still damp. Nate snorts quietly as he pulls a fresh roll of bandages from his pocket and starts firmly wrapping it around the wound. 

The lid for the pot of cream is half on and half off. Sunlight makes the thin coating on Nate’s skin glisten. “You know, someone else could help you with that,” Polly says.

Nate taps his fingers against the metal lid. “And use far too much and waste it all? This stuff doesn’t grow on trees— I do have to make more of it when it’s gone.”

Polly laughs again. “Not like there are any trees at sea anyway.” Her brow furrows in concern, and she leans forward so she’s looking Nate in the eye. “Just ‘cause you patch all of us up—”

“Is that too tight, Roman?” Nate asks, managing to startle him out of his half doze and avoid her comment entirely. Experimentally, he moves his arm up and down, before shaking his head. “Is your back still aching?” The question makes his back flare up as it brushes against the mast as if on instinct, and Roman can’t hide his wince well enough. Nate hums, but doesn’t hesitate before taking off the lid and motioning for Roman to show him the bruise. It’s already tinged blue and purple, but he supposes it’s better than a broken bone. Icy fingers ghost over the spot, making Roman squeak. Nate laughs but doesn’t tease, and neither of them say how he doesn’t use the bare minimum despite his protests about supplies. Polly’s eyes narrow slightly. One of her hands runs through his hair, and he relaxes with the touch. The sun’s setting early, but the night is warm and so is he, settled between friendly touches and shadow puppets.

Logan’s voice drifts across to them, louder this time. “Restock while you’re there and lay low — you have a list of what we need, correct? I can double check our supplies quickly…” Thomas’ reply comes after, the words indistinguishable but affirmative. 

Polly sighs, glancing back towards the ajar door. “He’s planning to go running after the Captain and thinks if he leaves in the dead of night no one’ll try and stop him.” Her fingers hit a knot in Roman’s hair and she slowly begins to untangle it. “Thinks if he steals off on his quest it’ll keep the rest of us outta jail. No good protecting us if he won’t protect himself.”

Nate hums thoughtfully. Tucked away in his pocket is bandages and the round pot, significantly lighter than before he brought it out. “I’m sure our Quartermaster can take care of himself.” 

Roman perks his head up as the words fit together in his head. “He’s going to rescue—”

“Yes,” Polly interrupts sternly, “and don’t you get any ideas about running off and joining him. It won’t help the Captain and it won’t help yourself if you get yourself killed. Understand?”

“Of course,” he replies, and only sort of means it. “When have I ever gotten into trouble?”

“You want a list?” Nate asks dryly. “There was that time up North with the stolen fish—”

Polly continues, “—and the time last Summer when you let an entire zoo go running wild.”

“That kerfuffle with the prince you fancied.”

“Every single market you have ever set foot in.”

“And don’t forget—”

Roman hurriedly cuts them both off before they bring up anything he’d prefer not to remember. “Alright! You’ve made your point!” They both laugh at his flushed cheeks and the way he almost slaps Nate in the face with his urgency. Polly’s is hearty and loud, and there’s always a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Nate’s is quieter but just as warm, accompanied by one more quip to send you over the edge again.

“You cannot talk to us about getting into trouble, when we practically _invented_ the damn thing.”

Polly’s eyes light up on the same way they do when she’s remembering a good story. “Tell him how we met in Salou! With the oranges and the sixteen counterfeit fruit stalls and the upside down kayak chase!” 

“I’m sorry, the upside down _what?”_

“Alright,” Nate says, his grin growing wider. “See, it all started when I met this guy who said he’d sell me mangoes...”

*

Padding towards the main deck, Roman starts to wonder if this is a good idea after all. As the sun dropped below the horizon, so did the temperature, and he’s close to shivering in his wooden jacket and hat. Every creak of wood underneath his feet makes him wince. _One, two, three…_ no one comes. He keeps walking. If he’s slower, rounds out his steps, toe-side-heel, you can barely hear a thing.

“Roman?” ...Fine, maybe his stealth skills need a bit of work. Nate’s standing in the doorway of the tiny infirmary. Inside, there’s stacks of books and a half finished healing salve on the table. The candle has melted down to a third of its original size, the wax pooling and hardening in the bottom of its holder. Nate looks at the bag in Roman’s arms — a spare shirt, his spyglass and journal, a couple of other supplies to ensure he wouldn’t keel over in the middle of a forest. He should say something. Nate sighs heavily and he needs to say _something._ Anything.

...He doesn’t.

All he can do is freeze up, staring at Nate in shock and apprehension. For a moment, for one terrifying moment, it’s only them, dying candlelight, and silence.

“Polly will be mad if you don’t come home in one piece.”

“We can’t risk that,” Roman whispers. In the morning, when Polly wakes up and sees his empty hammock, she’ll assume he’s up in the crow’s nest. Then, when he doesn’t appear for breakfast and is nowhere to be found? Will she think he’s dead? Run off to be locked up forever? Or worse?

Nate loosely wraps his arms around him, and rests his head on top of Roman’s. They stay like that for a little while, Roman burying his face in Nate’s shirt and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Just because I’m not stopping you,” he finally murmurs, “doesn’t mean that Logan will do the same. If he does...stay safe, okay?” A roll of bandages are tucked into Roman’s front pocket, and Nate presses a sticky bun into his hand. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says with a small smile, and licks the cinnamon from his fingers.

Roman suppresses a laugh, and Nate’s hand lingers on his shoulder before he walks away to where the rest of the crew are slumbering. He takes a deep breath, in through the nose and out though the mouth, then walks ahead, clutching his bag a little tighter.

Outside, Thomas is at the helm, looking towards the ocean. Before he can get any further towards the main mast, his boots scuff against the wood, and Thomas turns around. Roman presses himself against the side and ducks down. Hopefully he’s out of sight. Chancing a quick glance towards Thomas, he’s turned his back again. It’s not hard to see the dejected slump of his shoulders.

Scrabbling up the mast, he pulls himself into the crow’s nest near silently. The smallest sounds are drowned out by the sea. Instead of keeping his eyes on the horizon however, Roman doesn’t tear them away from the deck. A pair of gulls fly overhead, and Roman wonders what it would feel like to fly.

By the time Logan appears, the sky has started to lighten. Roman has fallen asleep and woken up at least three times, and every time it’s because of nightmares. In the first, he was standing in the crowd as Patton led to the gallows. He tries to scream out, but his mouth is filled with water and he can’t even breathe. Seawater spills out in front of him, and faceless strangers move away in disgust before more appear to block his way. The rest are just a blur of Patton and death and disappearing into the murky depths.

The soft thud of his boots as they hit the deck is the loudest sound in the night, and even from 4 metres up in the air he can see the way Logan’s shoulders slump. “It’s late, Roman,” he finally says, as if Roman can’t see the stars mapping out the sky above them. “Go back to sleep.”

“I want to come with you.” Polly once said that if you look confident enough, no one will ever doubt that you know what you’re doing. He tries to look confident now. “You’re going to save Patton. Let me help.”

“Roman.” And Logan sounds so very, _very_ tired. “This is not up to negotiation.” There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before, and Roman would bet a slice of Thomas’ treacle tart that he hasn’t slept since they were attacked. Thomas himself makes no sign he’s listening, except for the way his hands tighten on the helm.

“You always said never to leave the ship alone in case you find a problem and need someone to make a bigger one that cancels out the one you just made.”

“You’re paraphrasing.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

“You’re _injured._ ”

Roman shrugs, and is careful not to wince. “Barely.”

“You could die, Roman.”

“I’ve almost died before.”

That makes Logan grit his teeth and take a step towards him. “This isn’t a _game,_ Roman. Patton would never forgive me if I let you—”

“Patton isn’t here right now,” he interrupts. _Because of me,_ the tiny voice in the back of his head says. “And I want to do something about it. You wouldn’t be letting me. _Technically_ I’m letting myself.” 

“That makes no sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Roman isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a challenge. Either way, Logan opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens and shuts it again. It reminds him faintly of a trout.

Logan straightens his hat. Roman sets it wonky again.

Then Roman takes one last look at _The Bluebottle,_ and follows his Quartermaster into the night and towards their captain.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hello on tumblr at [@houser-of-stories!](https://houser-of-stories.tumblr.com/)


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